Beneath the Mountains Music Woke
by EmilianaDarling
Summary: After being rescued by Bilbo, Thorin begins to realize that his feelings for the halfling are more than simple gratitude. But past ills cannot be so easily undone, and the growing need inside him proves difficult to understand or control. And although he might be king in name, a man without land or wealth has little to offer anyone. (Thorin/Bilbo)
1. Chapter 1

**Contains:** Angst, slow build romance, misunderstandings, confused emotions, cultural differences, class differences, possessiveness/jealousy, potential book spoilers.

**Author's Note:** Hello, all! I'm thinking this story will be at least three chapters, and progress reports will be posted on my tumblr. Thank you so very much for reading, and for any feedback!

* * *

The first time that Thorin Oakenshield laid eyes on Bilbo Baggins, he had been more than a little unconvinced by what he saw.

Having spent much time in the settlements of men during his time as a King-In-Exile, Thorin had never had cause to travel far enough west to encounter hobbits before. On his way to meet the assembled company and acquire their final member, the journey through the Shire – along pristine brooks and past quaint round doors of many colours built into the sides of grassy hills – had left him with a vague sense of resentment instead of an appreciation for its beauty. It had burned like bile at the back of his throat: here was a land untouched by war, a land that had seemed to exist in such a state of perfect peace that its inhabitants likely couldn't even remember the last time there had been a call to arms.

It made Thorin hate them, a little bit, even though there was no real reason for it. Made him angry for the lives that his own people, scattered across the vast world and struggling for mere survival, had not been able to lead for so many years.

Finding out that the burglar Gandalf had promised them was nothing but a fussy, useless creature without even a _hint_ of a beard hadn't helped matters at all. His first impression upon entering the hobbit hole had been how profoundly _delicate_ their so-called burglar was: so much smaller and slighter than dwarves tended to come, clad in expensive-looking linen and surrounded by trifles. His skin was clean and pale, and his hair curled softly around pointed, elf-like ears that made something uncomfortable twist in the bottom of Thorin's belly.

The realization that Bilbo was a scant fifty years of age had been like another slap in the face, and Thorin had taken the information as proof that the halfling would be of no more use on their quest than a toddling child. Each and every one of the dwarves in his company had proven their worth in one way or another: Bilbo, on the other hand, promised to be nothing but a nuisance.

In many ways, Thorin's entire life had been defined by his mistakes; they had shaped him like the smith shapes hot iron, fashioning him into the man he was and the king he could not yet truly be. The loss of his kingdom, allowing his grandfather and father to be killed, failing to provide strong leadership for his people in exile – all were emblems of failure that stood out like black marks in his own personal history.

It was quite possible, however, that underestimating Bilbo Baggins had been the greatest mistake of them all.

* * *

On the third day after the flight from the goblin kingdom and Azog, the company made camp after a long day of walking in a small clearing surrounded by fresh-smelling pine trees. Having lost most of their supplies – first with the loss of the ponies, and then with the chaos they had only narrowly escaped on the backs of the eagles – the past few nights had been pointedly less comfortable than the first leg of their journey.

Although Nori had been dispatched to 'acquire' what supplies he could from a nearby village of men two days ago (without any gold in his pockets, and the less Thorin knew about _that_ the better), the few meagre bedrolls, cloaks, cooking supplies, and rations he had returned with were nowhere near enough to last them to Erebor. As a result, company's progress had been somewhat slowed by the need to scavenge and hunt for food along the way.

Night was just falling by the time Thorin returned with Dwalin from a foraging expedition, and the two of them slipped through the trees to rejoin their friends just as the sun was falling behind the trees. It had been a good forage, Thorin thought: not just because both of their packs were stuffed to the brim with mushrooms and tubers to add to their slowly-growing supplies, but also because of the rare opportunity to spend time with his friend. Although Dwalin had been one of his closest friends – practically a brother – for many years, Thorin's responsibilities as leader as well as the sheer number of their party had made it difficult for the two of them to spend any time together.

_Just like the old days,_ Dwalin had said roguishly earlier that day, elbowing his friend and king with little regard to his title as usual. Thorin had rolled his eyes at the time, but it had indeed been a welcome interlude.

Upon their return it was clear that Dori and Oin had done well in gathering firewood, and the blaze in the centre of camp was great enough to almost make up for the lack of real bedding. The warmth of the fire's glow illuminated the pleasure on their companions' faces at their return. At the edge of the clearing, Thorin could see Gandalf sitting with his back against a tree trunk, grey cloak wrapped around his body and his hat pulled over his face. Either sleeping or pretending to sleep; it was impossible to tell from such a distance. A pot of Bombur's stew sat untouched and simmering on the fire, and Thorin pushed down a twinge of discomfort at the realization that everyone had been waiting for his return before eating.

He couldn't help but notice the halfling, either. The glow of the fire danced over the smooth lines of his face, and his curls seemed to catch the light in a way that made his face appear haloed in the darkness. Caught up in conversation with Bofur and Gloin and with Bifur making animated gestures beside him, Bilbo did not raise his head as Thorin approached. A cloak that was not his own – possibly Bofur's – was draped over his shoulders to keep out the chill of the night.

"Many thanks for your assistance, my friend," Thorin said to Dwalin, wrenching his eyes away and reaching out to grip his friend firmly by the shoulder to show his gratitude. Smirking, Dwalin clapped him on the shoulder – the force of which made the still-healing wound in Thorin's arm sear wickedly with pain. He clenched his teeth, determined not to flinch or gasp. Thankfully, Dwalin didn't seem to notice as he grabbed both of their bags and headed to store them away from the night. Once the pain in his arm had eased down to a gentle throbbing, Thorin himself headed toward the camp fire.

Earlier in the day Thorin had dispatched Kili and Fili to find meat for dinner, and he was pleased to note that the two of them had returned with enough hares to render tonight's stew a hearty fare indeed: the smell of richly herbed meat and potatoes was enough to make his stomach growl. Bombur was already dishing up his portion, instinctively serving him first, and Thorin moved forward to grab the bowl and murmur his thanks as the rest of the dwarves crowded around to receive their own.

He sent Ori off with a bowl for Gandalf – doubtless the wizard would be unimpressed if his portion were sacrificed to Bombur's voracious appetite – and then settled himself down on a somewhat removed patch of grass to eat, comfortable in the knowledge that everyone in the company knew him well enough to leave let him have his privacy for the moment. He sat and took his first mouthful as the comforting laughter and chatter of his companions washed over him, the sound of it mixed with the gentle hooting of waking owls in the trees around them.

The clearing itself had been chosen because of the clear, shallow stream that edged along its western border, which Gandalf had assured them was almost certainly connected to Anduin, the Great River of Wildland. The proximity of the stream promised that they were still headed in the right direction: after crossing the Great River they would reach the forest of Mirkwood, and after they emerged from that long and darkened road the Lonely Mountain would very nearly be within their reach.

There was a great distance left to travel, and Thorin could only hope that Bilbo was right in saying the worst was now behind them. But the fact that they were so very close – the fact that everyone under his care had made it this far unharmed – was enough to give him heart.

Such closeness to their goal, however, did not change the fact that ever since being rescued by him from death at the hands of Azog the Defiler, Thorin's outlook on Bilbo Baggins had undergone a rather profound shift.

Thorin frowned into his bowl of stew, chewing thoughtfully on a tougher piece of meat as he did so. It was... strange, this change of heart. The realization that he had so badly misjudged Bilbo Baggins had come over him all at once and brutally quick, crashing down upon his head as waves crash against the cliff face during a storm. It shamed him to even think it, but he had spent the past three days utterly at a loss at how his outlook on the Halfling had undergone such great change in so short a time.

Although he had tried his best to treat Bilbo with warmth and respect in the days since their escape from the enemy, the realization that his feelings were perhaps more laden than simple gratitude had left Thorin feeling uneasy and uncertain. Bilbo had done him the greatest service of them all, and Thorin had been nothing but dismissive of him since the beginning of their journey. It made him powerfully ill at ease, this debt between them. There was only so much that could be done to remedy former ills, and Thorin knew perhaps better than anyone that nothing can truly change the past.

That memory – of Bilbo physically hurling his tiny body into the orc who threatened him, the heat of the spreading flames hot against his face and the screams of his dwarven companions as they clung for their lives ringing in his ears – was the last thing that Thorin could remember before he had lost his grip on awareness and had been dragged into blackness.

The others had told him later that after he lost consciousness, Bilbo had fought with no regard for his own personal safety; that he had acted out of bravery that would have put any dwarf to shame. The memory of their praise – and of the relief on Bilbo's face when he realized that he was indeed alive – made Thorin shiver in a way that was not entirely due to the cold night air.

It didn't help, either, that Thorin had always felt some... _discomfort_ at Bilbo's physical appearance since their very first meeting in Bag End. The bareness of his face, the rich colours and elegant cuts of his clothing – all of it had made Thorin's stomach twist in a way that only added to his rancour. The details of Bilbo's appearance had nagged at him and bothered him since the very beginning. Before, he had believed that his discomfort had been merely in response to Bilbo's unsuitability for their quest.

Now, however, it seemed that his reaction had perhaps originated from somewhat less... _honourable_ intents.

For so long, Thorin's only purpose – the one golden goal that he had directed his entire life toward – had been to vanquish Smaug and recapture Erebor, to provide a home for his people and avenge his family. It had been all he had thought about and dreamt about and worked toward for years, and out of the blue his heart had decided to make room for something else. For some_one_ else. It felt selfish to dwell upon the halfling in such a way, but he could not seem to help himself: no matter what he did, Thorin continued to feel a profound pull towards him that seemed to strengthen every day.

As though summoned by his thoughts, the unmistakable sound of Bilbo's happy laughter reached his ears from across the camp. Thorin looked up sharply, unthinkingly searching out the cause of that laughter with such fervency that he made his spoon clatter loudly in his bowl.

Even from far away, Thorin was immediately able to spot Bilbo sitting by the fire with a dwarf on either side of him. Bifur had apparently wandered off, but Bofur was in the middle of some kind of grand story that had both Gloin and Bilbo practically clutching their sides with mirth. Bofur's gestures were grandiose and overplayed, and as Thorin watched he grabbed both flaps of his hat and made an exaggerated choking noise that made Bilbo have to quickly cover his mouth to keep from spitting stew everywhere. While Bilbo was distracted, Bofur's storyteller facade slipped for a moment; even from a distance, Thorin could make out the small, fond smile that tugged at his lips.

Something ugly and awful clenched at Thorin's chest, and before he fully realized what he was doing he had pushed himself to his feet and was striding purposefully across the camp. Droplets of broth splashed over the sides of his bowl in his haste, but Thorin – too singularly focused and brimming with sudden, crippling irritation – barely even noticed.

"I require the Halfling's presence," Thorin announced gruffly as soon as he stood in front of the three of them, and the laughter cut off abruptly. Bofur stared up at him with wide eyes, still clutching the sides of his hat, and Gloin looked so ashamed that Thorin felt a momentary twinge of guilt. Bilbo stared up at him in utter confusion, eyes darting around as though he thought Thorin had made some kind of mistake.

"You do?" Bilbo asked, sounding uncertain. Around them, a few of the dwarves seemed to be attempting to steal glances at them without being noticed.

"Of course, Thorin," said Gloin after a moment, giving Bilbo a meaningful look and a sharp nudge with his elbow. Bilbo did not move to stand, however: he appeared to be rather at a loss of what to do. After a few uncertain moments, Bofur and Gloin began to stand and leave instead. Thorin thought he might have seen Bilbo shoot Bofur a helpless look out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't be quite sure.

Feeling somewhat unreasonably pleased with himself, Thorin lowered himself to the ground to sit next to him. Bilbo opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again and shot Thorin a sideways look. It was rather sweet, Thorin thought, the way Bilbo acted when he didn't quite know what to say. Thorin felt something longing twist in the base of his stomach, and he quickly schooled away the beginnings of the smile that was forming at the corners of his mouth. Bofur's cloak was still draped over Bilbo's shoulders, and for an insane moment Thorin actually considered yanking it off and replacing it with his own. He dismissed the urge, however, focusing instead on the way the bright flames leapt and danced in front of them.

The silence stretched on between them, unbroken and increasingly uncomfortable. It occurred to Thorin rather belatedly that he should probably attempt to say something; he had been the one demand Bilbo's attention in the first place, after all. He cleared his throat, glancing down at Bilbo beside him.

"... are you enjoying your meal?" he asked, then mentally winced at the triviality of the question. Bilbo blinked at him.

"Yes, I – um. Well, yes. Yes I am," said Bilbo, the words haltering and awkward. He looked down into his hands and stared pointedly at the small amount of broth left in the bowl. "It's very... stew-like."

The moment of stilted silence that followed was thankfully broken by a loud exclamation in Khuzdul from the other side of the camp. Both of them turned at the sound: it was Bifur, who was calling for a song to liven up the evening. When Dwalin roguishly called back that _some_ of them had had a hard day's work, Bifur responded by making some rather vulgar accusations about Dwalin's parentage. Everyone laughed, and before long the rest of the camp had broken into _The Ballad of Belegost_, a very old and very lively song about companionship between soldiers and overcoming seemingly-insurmountable odds.

Hearing his companions' voices raised in that particular song was enough to bring a smile to Thorin's face, and he turned to share his contentment with Bilbo. When he turned around, however, Thorin was caught off guard to see that Bilbo's expression was rumpled in mild confusion. He seemed to be enjoying the song, but the look on his face gave no indication that he understood the words being spoken at all.

_Of course he doesn't understand Khudzul, _thought Thorin, mentally slapping himself in the face for his own idiocy. _Of course he doesn't_, _why would he?_ Briefly, he wondered why such an obvious conclusion had caught him so off guard. Bilbo was a hobbit of the Shire: he had no reason to know the secret language of the dwarves. He had simply been so thoroughly accepted into their group that it seemed as though he should somehow instinctively know this aspect of their culture as well.

The lack of comprehension on Bilbo's face made Thorin feel slightly ill at ease; he wanted to make it go away. Wanted to bring him in so that he could share in this moment as well.

"It is a song about Belegost, a dwarven city of the First Age," Thorin explained, feeling a small shiver of pleasure when Bilbo's eyes turned to him in interest. "The dwarves of Belegost were some of the finest smiths in all the world. The song is in reference to an attempted siege of the city during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears; it speaks of the staunchness of heart of the women who forged charms for the soldiers they loved, and of the siege that was withstood through immense bravery. It has long been a beloved song of my people."

"What happened to them?" Bilbo asked, turning his head to one side and leaning in closer. Thorin felt a pang in his chest. He shrugged.

"They died," he said simply, and Bilbo bit his lip and glanced toward the ground. "They weathered the siege and won the battle, but they died all the same when the War of Wrath came. Some escaped to Khazad-dûm, but most did not. Belegost does not exist anymore." _Just like Erebor_, said an awful voice in his head, but he shoved that thought away before it could take root.

Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, taking another mouthful of stew. He directed his gaze over Thorin's shoulder to where their companions were singing heartily, chanting the chorus louder and louder with each recitation. There was something quietly melancholy about his demeanor, and Thorin couldn't seem to stop his gaze from lingering; over the relaxed curve of Bilbo's back, the way his eyebrows tugged together. The lines of his mouth, lips pressed together in thought.

"It's been such a long time since the Shire has seen war," said Bilbo. After a moment, he laughed. "We're not made for it, really. We're all... round bellies and parties and needing our afternoon tea," he said, shooting Thorin a look at the self-deprecating words. "And our pocket handkerchiefs, of course. We're not really the stuff of songs, I don't think. Not really."

_There's more to you than meets the eye_, Thorin almost wanted to say, but he caught himself just in time. He shifted somewhat uneasily instead, the direction of his thoughts making him feel agitated.

"Actually," Bilbo commented after a moment, not seeming to notice Thorin's discomfort. "I don't think I've ever heard Bifur say anything in the common tongue. Does he just not know it, or does it have to do with his... erm." He gestured clumsily to his own forehead, miming the orcish axe that was permanently lodged in Bifur's head. Thorin nodded, both amused and relieved at the change in conversation.

"Aye," said Thorin. "He received that wound when we attempted to take back Moria for our people, and he hasn't been able to speak the common tongue ever since. It's a miracle he survived at all, really. Our healers had taken him for dead at first."

"Oh, yes, definitely," Bilbo agreed, sounding both apologetic and overly enthusiastic at once. He winced – then took another hasty mouthful of stew, all the while looking at Thorin expectantly.

They ate together in silence for a little while, the only sound the loud crackle of the fire in front of them and the voices of the dwarves, who had moved onto a quieter song about love and betrayal and vengeance. After a few minutes, Thorin relented. Bilbo was clearly still anxious about why Thorin had demanded his presence, and he was not sure how much of his behaviour could be explained in an acceptable fashion. As much honesty as possible, he decided, was likely the best choice in this situation.

"I am sorry, Bilbo," he said quietly after a long while, using the hobbit's first name aloud for what felt like the first time. "I did not mean to coerce you into speaking with me." He paused. "I have... merely been dwelling on the manner in which I have treated you in the past, and such thoughts made me desire to seek your presence. I wish to make amends for the things I have said to you so that we may one day become true brothers in arms."

Beside him, Bilbo wrinkled his nose. "Thorin, no, you don't... you don't have to apologize. I told you, I would have doubted me too." He shrugged. "There are things I also wish I could take back, or do differently. But... it's fine. _We're_ fine." He grinned, turning to Thorin and bending his whole body forward in a solemn bow. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service," he said half-jokingly, a smile playing along his lips.

Genuine happiness seemed to burst in his chest at the playful gesture, and Thorin reached out and clapped Bilbo on the arm to show his thanks. Grinning, Bilbo did the same to him in response – and _pain_ burst through Thorin's arm, shooting from forearm to his shoulder. He inhaled sharply and jerked his arm away, seeking to conceal the reaction – but Bilbo's entire demeanour had already switched from playful to highly concerned.

"Thorin?" Bilbo asked urgently, his voice rising in worry. He looked suspiciously at the offending arm, and Thorin cursed internally. "Thorin, what is it? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," said Thorin stiffly, frustrated with himself. He rubbed the wound concealed by the leather sleeves of his jerkin. "It's merely the after-effects of one of the warg bites I received before we managed to escape Azog. It will heal, I assure you."

"Let me look at it," Bilbo ordered, and Thorin felt his eyebrows rise up in surprise. Bilbo didn't seem to notice, however: he was already working at removing Thorin's left bracer. He shook his head when Thorin attempted to gently pull away, latching onto his hand with a strength Thorin hadn't been entirely aware that he possessed. "I know a thing or two about healing, I promise. Let me look at it." He paused, seeming to realize for the first time who, exactly he was talking to. He looked up and gave Thorin a beseeching look. "Please."

There was a pause – before, finally, Thorin conceded with a nod. He dutifully unclasped the fur-lined cloak at his throat, allowing it to fall to the ground behind them. Bilbo gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling off his bracer, and Thorin rolled up the sleeve of his leather jerkin. Then slowly, carefully, Bilbo reached forward and unwound the makeshift bandage on his arm – made from the torn cloth of an undershirt since their supplies had been so few – so that the wound was revealed to the air.

The sound of Bilbo's gasp was such that Thorin did not need to look him in the face to know his reaction. He forced himself not to squirm under the attention as Bilbo's fingers ever-so-gently traced the edges of the deep gauges. The leather of his jerkin had kept out the worst of the damage, but warg teeth were sharp and their jaws strong. Thorin had washed off the worst of the blood and bandaged himself one-handed, but had mostly chosen to keep the wound hidden and let time do its work. The bite was only slightly puffy and pink around the edges, and he had faith that his dwarvish constitution would prevent a full infection.

"Did you bandage this yourself?" Bilbo asked quietly, and shot him a glare when Thorin nodded. "Why didn't you talk to Oin? He has salves for such hurts, you know that."

Thorin shrugged, feeling somewhat defensive. "I have treated many a battlefield wound, Master Baggins. I very much doubt that such a scratch will cause me any discomfort after a week or so."

"A _scratch_," said Bilbo disbelievingly, shaking his head – before pushing himself onto his feet. Thorin blinked in surprise. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" he asked, but Bilbo was already darting across the camp to where their makeshift packs were piled. It was only a few moments before he returned: in his right hand he held a small bowl, and in the left a fistful of long, pale-stemmed flowers.

"Rogun's Bloom," Bilbo explained off-handedly, already plunking himself onto the ground down next to Thorin again. He plucked a rock from the ground, brushed off the dirt, and began to use it to determinedly crush the flower stems in the bowl. "It'll stop the wound from festering, and should also help it to heal without scarring. I saw some a few days ago and pocketed it just in case." He huffed in annoyance, sending Thorin a nasty look. "Had I known that you had such untreated wounds, I would've done this _days_ ago."

"How do you know this?" asked Thorin in surprise, staring down at Bilbo's steady hands as he ground the stems into a smooth paste. The wound in his arm throbbed. "Did you train as a healer in the Shire?"

"Goodness, no," Bilbo snorted mildly, wiping the excess paste off the stone before dropping it easily back onto the ground. "But my old gardener – Hamfast Gamgee, wonderful man, greener thumb than you can imagine – used to spend hours explaining what every herb and plant in our front garden could do, and in my younger years I found nothing more fascinating. I simply happened to remember this plant's uses." He reached into the bowl with three fingers and scooped out the pale green salve, reaching forward to apply it to Thorin's arm before the king could protest.

Thorin hissed in a breath when the salve touched his skin, but not in pain: it was surprisingly cool to the touch, but felt quite pleasant as Bilbo smoothed it gently into the wound. He stopped fighting it, finally relaxing into Bilbo's touch with a sigh that he hoped his companion didn't notice. It felt... nice, to be cared for like this. Bilbo's fingers were soft and uncalloused against the roughness of his own arm; overwhelming and perfect in a way Thorin did not wish to question.

The softness of Bilbo's hands – affluent hands, pampered hands, hands that spoke of a life of leisure and comfort – made another thought jerk Thorin out of his reverie, and he looked up sharply just as Bilbo seemed to be finishing up.

"There," Bilbo announced, sounding satisfied. "That should help. I'll try to find some more so that you can apply it yourself for the next few days. Honestly, I can't believe you didn't –"

"You know how to avoid scarring, Master Baggins," Thorin cut in unsteadily, jerking a hand out to grab Bilbo by the wrist. His wrist was small, so _small_; delicate and pale, and Thorin could wrap his hand around it with no challenge at all. Bilbo tensed, glancing down at his wrist and back up at Thorin again. "But do you know how to avoid receiving such wounds yourself, or how to give them to others? Have you received any training at all with that letter-opener of yours?"

Bilbo stiffened, wrenching his wrist out of Thorin's grasp. "I saved your life without any such knowledge," said Bilbo intensely. "I'm not –"

"And I would like you to remain alive to do so again," Thorin snapped, feeling hot, ugly anger rising within him. Not at Bilbo - not really - but it came flooding out nonetheless. "How do you propose you will protect yourself should you be attacked while on your own – herbs and salves? Stalling for time again? It was a miracle that you made it out of the goblin caves alive. There are many enemies for which you are no match, Master Baggins, and you must come to accept that."

And all at once, the idea of Bilbo being hurt – of Bilbo _dying_, heavens forbid it – struck a chord of terror so utterly profound within him that Thorin could barely speak. He could practically see it in his mind's eye: Bilbo caught unawares away from the party, being easily overpowered by man or orc or elf. Everything that could possibly happen to him flashed before Thorin's eyes and it _hurt_, it hurt deep inside, and he needed to keep Bilbo _safe_. Needed to lock him up where nobody could see, where nobody could hurt him; tucked away and taken care of like treasure, he was _treasure_, he needed to be kept safe and protected and _his_, Bilbo was _his_ –

Thorin wrenched himself violently out of that strain of thought, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. He glanced up, horrified, only to realize that Bilbo did not seem to have noticed the turmoil inside his head. Instead, the hobbit was sitting with his back uncomfortably straight and his lips pressed together, staring at something off in the distance behind him. His thumb and index finger were tucked into the pocket of his soft yellow vest, a wrinkle of hurt between his eyebrows.

"I'm not entirely helpless," Bilbo insisted – before deflating, the tension and hurt seeming to ease out of his body as he sagged and nodded. He slid his fingers from his pocket and clasped his hands together, giving Thorin a cowed look. There was a stiffness to the way he held himself that Thorin did not remember being there before. "But... you're right, of course. I should learn to fight better. It would... make me more useful that way."

Relaxing somewhat, Thorin nodded. "It would," he said definitively, because he _was_ right to suggest that Bilbo learn to better protect himself. Even if his motivations for the suggestion were somewhat more overwhelming than they should have been, hewas right.

He quickly ran through the members of the party in an attempt to select an appropriate tutor: not all of the dwarves were fighters, and few of those trained in the ways of the sword would make good teachers for such basic technique. Dwalin was too harsh and unforgiving, Balin's long years of experience would likely make him a better advanced instructor, and Dori was often too occupied with looking out for his brothers to provide comprehensive enough instruction.

His nephews, however, had gone through the steps of learning basic swordsmanship only a few decades ago, which meant that it should all still be fresh in their minds. They were approachable and kind, and both of them possessed a soft spot for the Bilbo that would make them eager to help him. Providing them with such a task would give them a productive outlet for their youthful energy, too, as well as reinforcing the basics of swordsmanship for themselves. Plus, Thorin thought guiltily, he could trust the two of them to keep an eye out for Bilbo without asking too many questions.

"In the morning, I shall instruct Kili and Fili to educate you in the ways of the sword for at least an hour each day," said Thorin firmly, and Bilbo nodded in acceptance. "I want you to be able to protect yourself – and others of our party – if you are called upon to do so. They should make for good and fair instructors."

"Yes, Thorin," Bilbo murmured, obedient and pacified, and Thorin could not quite understand the prickling of unease he felt at the response. He had got what he wanted: Bilbo would learn how to properly wield his sword, and his nephews would be able to protect him when Thorin wasn't around to do so. Still, though, something unpleasant that Thorin could not fully identify was persistently twisting along the edges of his mind. He felt strangely empty.

"I owe you my thanks for the healing," Thorin blurted, and Bilbo nodded absently.

"You don't need to thank me for that," said Bilbo, and there was some emotion in his voice that Thorin could not identify. He gave Thorin a strange look before grabbing the bowls that had previously held the salve and his stew before rising to his feet. "I should retire now, I think." He laughed softly. "I have to be well-rested if I'm to be training tomorrow."

"Of course," said Thorin, then called out as Bilbo turned to walk away: "Good night, Master Baggins."

Bilbo paused in his steps, turning to give Thorin a soft smile over his shoulder. "Good night," he said, mumbling something that might have been _my king _or might have been nothing at allbefore turning to quickly walk toward his pack and bedroll.

Instead of watching him go, Thorin forced himself to turn and stare into the fire. The other dwarves had stopped their singing long ago, and he did not want to turn around to see if any of them were still awake. He felt strangely numb, as though his skin had turned to stone.

It took him a long time to fall asleep that night, gazing steadfastly into the bright heat until the only sounds around him were the gentle snores of his companions and the persistent crackle of the flames.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you so much for your support, everyone! :D I'm delighted that people seem to be enjoying this so far, and I'm so grateful for all of the lovely feedback. And as seems to frequently happen (will I ever be able to write something short?) it looks as though this story might be a bit longer than I originally anticipated. Maybe four chapters? Updates (as well as general flailings) are available at .com

* * *

At Thorin's command, Bilbo's sword fighting lessons began the very next day.

It had been an easy enough task to convince his nephews to take on the additional responsibility. Thorin had approached the two of them in the early hours of the morning, when the chill air and dew-soaked grass made their fireside conversation seem like little more than a half-dreamt memory.

Both Kili and Fili had accepted the task gladly, as he had suspected they would. Both of them were their mother's sons: Dis had always been a hearty woman, but she possessed an affable and kindly nature that both of her sons had inherited. Young and reckless and occasionally foolish though they might be, he had never known the two of them to shy away from hard work. They were growing into capable young warriors, and Thorin felt a rush of pride when they happily accepted their new task. He did not doubt they would prove to be excellent tutors.

The fact that Bilbo seemed friendly enough towards him the next morning – a little restrained, perhaps, but not overtly angry, and Thorin _still _couldn't seem to figure out where their conversation by the fire had gone so wrong – helped to reassure Thorin more than ever that he'd made the right choice.

The company continued at a slow but determined pace, building up their stockpiles of supplies as they trudged along the ever-widening streams. And other than Gandalf declaring his intention to foray alone for a few days, the only real alteration to their routine came in the evenings; when Kili or Fili would tap Bilbo on the shoulder, tug him aside, and begin teaching him the rudiments of swordsmanship.

The first of Bilbo's lessons were highly conceptual in nature, as Thorin had advised. His assumption that the halfling had never received a single fighting lesson in his life was soon proven correct by Bilbo's own admission, and Kili and Fili spent the first few evenings working on the very basics of stance, grip, the names of different techniques. One evening's lesson seemed to entail his nephews physically demonstrating methods for stalling an enemy just long enough to scramble to safety. In another, Fili even set out all of his personal weapons that he had managed to reclaim from the goblins – the most extensive selection of their entirely company, including two swords, two daggers, a regular-sized axe, and a pair of throwing axes – and had patiently explained how each was used and how best to defend against them on the battlefield.

These initial lessons were so basic, in fact, that the novelty of their resident hobbit learning to fight wore off quicker than Thorin had expected. The rest of the company seemed quite content to either watch the proceedings with one eye or let them have privacy altogether.

Thorin's interest, however, did not wane quite so quickly.

It was almost like a sickness; as though Bilbo had been seared onto his brain and simply could not be ignored any longer. Taking his eyes off of the halfling was almost physically painful, and even though he trusted Fili and Kili to conduct themselves with safety and integrity he could not seem to resist declaring his intentions to sit on in the first few lessons. He observed in stoic silence, only making a quiet comment here or there. His heart seemed to clench whenever Bilbo glanced nervously up at him. Any lesson he did not overtly shadow was always spent wondering how the proceedings were going in frustration.

Even though Bilbo had reacted so badly to the idea of being instructed, Thorin was quietly pleased to note that he took to the lessons rather well. He discovered that Bilbo was both an excellent student as well as a quick learner, and the speed with which he was able to grasp ideas and techniques made a raw pride swell in Thorin's chest. It helped, he told himself, that Kili and Fili were the ones doing the teaching. As with most things in life, the two of them approached the task with good humour and high energy, and Bilbo seemed to enjoy learning from them.

And if his eyes lingered a little too long over the way Bilbo's hands wrapped around the sword hilt, or the way the exertion made Bilbo's cheeks flush and his sweet curls dampen with sweat...

He berated himself firmly whenever such ideas began to edge along the corners of his mind, roughly shoving such thoughts away with the bitter taste of shame at the back of his throat.

* * *

Because of an unexpected encounter with a rogue band of orcs that caused a rather unpleasant detour, it took the company an extra three days to make their way back onto their path. By that point, Kili and Fili had apparently decided that their pupil had gained enough confidence to begin drilling techniques in earnest.

This was, of course, the exact moment that the rest of the company decided to start taking an interest.

The day's lesson was taking place a good few hundred paces away from their camp site, right up against the banks of the stream they had been following. Thorin arrived from a meeting with Oin and Gloin to discover that a small cluster of assorted dwarves had gathered to watch. His nephews, seemingly at a bit of a loss at what to do, half-heartedly demonstrated thrusts and parries for Bilbo to copy as the throng of onlookers nattered and commentated and cheered in turn. Bilbo himself seemed to be growing more and more flustered by the second.

"A hobbit fightin' a dwarf," snorted Dwalin in amusement, though not with any real spite. "Had to see this for myself."

"Hey now," Bilbo exclaimed, giving his sword a decidedly distracted swipe. "I don't think –"

"You can do it, Mr. Bilbo!" shouted Ori excitedly, his knitted hood bouncing up and down as he jumped in place.

"I – well. Thank you," Bilbo finished awkwardly, missing the next move he was supposed to be imitating entirely. "But it's really not –"

"A lot of rough things can happen during a sword practice," Bofur interjected in a wise tone, cocking his head and smiling earnestly. "You could have your fingers chopped off, just like that! Or perhaps a little poke with the pointy end. Bloody little messes, stab wounds."

"_Bofur_." Bilbo's voice dripped with frustration, but he seemed to grow ever-so-slightly paler at the mention of chopped fingers. He jabbed his sword forward angrily, as though he was imagining someone being impaled on its point. "Can you _not_, really, I'm _trying_ to –"

But the babble only got louder, drowning out Bilbo's protests as well as any tips or pointers that Kili and Fili might have been attempting to bestow on him. It was funny – it _should_ have been funny, at least, and most of the company seemed to be treating an angry Bilbo in much the same way they would a hissing kitten. Only Fili and Kili were looking increasingly disheartened, and Bilbo's whole body seemed to be tensed with frustration and embarrassment, and Bilbo was _trying_. He was, he was trying to learn something that might save all of their lives one day, and all his companions could do was point and mock and stare.

Thorin could feel his fists clenching at his sides, the sound of his own heart pounding louder and louder in his ears until –

"_Enough_."

Everyone froze, and it took Thorin half a moment to fully realize that it was he who had shouted – _roared_ – at the cluster of gathered dwarves, the word imbued with every bit of authority he could muster. Everyone was turning to him in surprise, now, and Thorin was shocked to realize that he could feel himself _vibrating _with anger. He took a deep breath, then another, before glaring at the onlookers.

"Did any of you have a crowd of spectators on your very first day learning to wield a blade?" Thorin asked slowly, his voice was full of ice and order. Several of the dwarves at least had the decency to look guilty, either gazing down at their feet or off into the trees. Even Dwalin looked apologetic, and Bofur was wringing his hands in front of him. "Go about your business and leave him be. I'm sure the hobbit will be happy to demonstrate his skills once he's had a chance to hold a sword for longer than a few moments."

Disappointed and well-reprimanded, the troupe of would-be spectators turned on their heels and headed back toward the campgrounds. Only somewhat shamed, Thorin felt a rather unnecessary amount of pleasure at the sight of Bofur's retreating back. He stifled a smile.

"On your way, then!" shouted Kili cheekily, and Fili cuffed him gently on the head even as he sent the retreating dwarves a gleeful wave. Their enjoyment at being included when others were not was palpable, and Thorin sent them an amused look.

He shook his head, turned – and was unexpectedly confronted with a very scattered-looking Bilbo less than a foot away. He almost_ jumped_, but managed to control himself at the very last second even though the startled energy pounded like drums in his veins.

_Perhaps Gandalf is right about hobbits being light on their feet,_ he thought distractedly before Bilbo began to speak.

"Thank you for that," Bilbo exhaled, looking very relieved. He reached up and ran a hand through his curls, shaking his head. "Really. I know they meant well, but I barely know how to _hold_ this thing let alone impress anyone with it."

"You're learning quickly," said Thorin, his voice sounding awkward to his own ears, but Bilbo looked up at him sharply. His eyes were wide and surprised, as though the small compliment was the best thing he had ever heard. Emboldened, Thorin continued. "It takes commitment to learn a new weapon in adulthood; most of my men learned their own when they were but boys. You're doing well."

There was a pause – before a wide, genuine grin spread across Bilbo's face. "Thanks," he said, before letting out a startled laugh. At Thorin's quizzical eyebrow-raise, he explained. "If the Sackville-Bagginses could see me now, they'd probably drop dead from horror."

The thought seemed to cheer him rather than make him sad, so Thorin gave him a small smile in return. He took a quick look around – but Fili and Kili seemed to have run off somewhere. How strange. He glanced down at Bilbo's hands, frowning as he remembered something about Bilbo's practice strokes that he had witnessed before ordering the onlookers away.

"Your stance is good," Thorin began, "but your strokes are too heavy for such a little blade. My nephews forget that your weapon is elvish steel: it's light and quick, not the heavy swords they themselves learned on." He hesitated, gesturing at Bilbo's sword. "May I show you?"

Bilbo swallowed, blinking at him. "All right," he said after a moment, handing the blade over so that Thorin could demonstrate. It felt so light in Thorin's hand, his fingers thick and large around the slimness of the hilt. He moved a few paces back, then gave the air a few experimental strikes.

"I went through the same transition when I claimed Orcrist," Thorin explained, his eyes trained on Bilbo even as Bilbo was looking at the sword. "When you learn to fight a certain way, removing that training from your mind can often prove a challenge."

Bilbo nodded in understanding, and the movement made one of his curls – which had grown longer and slightly untamed since they left the Shire – shift so that it was just barely grazing his eyelash. Thorin's fingers twitched with the sudden urge to reach up and nudge it back into place, but instead he took another step back. He coughed, raised the little sword in the air – and demonstrated a common practice set in the air. Sideswipe, sideswipe, thrust, upwards cut, and all the while the little blade felt as light as a feather in his grasp. He felt close to _preening _from the pleasure of having Bilbo's eyes on him, intense and focused, but caught himself just in time.

"Focus on the movements of your wrists," said Thorin, emphasizing his movement accordingly. "You don't need strength to wield a blade like this, and there's no point in hurling it around like you're using a greatsword. See?"

He lowered the blade before taking a step forward and handing it back to Bilbo, who seemed to be slightly flushed. "Thank you," said Bilbo, turning quickly away from Thorin to give the sword an experimental swipe of his own.

The sight of him – back turned, dressed in his soft-looking maroon jacket that had once been so luxurious but was now world-won by many smudges and tears – was more than Thorin could resist. Without even thinking about it, without even stopping to _consider _how incredibly stupid he was being, Thorin stepped forward and right into Bilbo's personal space, his chest pressed right against Bilbo's back.

Bilbo startled against him, almost dropping the sword as he tensed up violently. Thorin quickly reached up, resting his hand against Bilbo's sword arm in a guiding, soothing gesture.

"May I show you?" he asked softly after a moment, an echo of his previous question. The roughness of his own voice surprised him. Bilbo hesitated – before nodding in acquiescence.

"All right," said Bilbo, the words almost a whisper. For a mad moment, Thorin almost imagined that he could feel Bilbo shiver against him. He reached up and laid his other hand against Bilbo's shoulder – to calm him just in case he was nervous.

There was a long, heavy pause – until Bilbo slowly raised his arm in the air and gave his sword a cautious, testing swipe. Thorin's hand guided his arm, focusing intently on the way Bilbo's hand arced.

"That's it," he said, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder. "Feel the blade curve with the air. Let its speed and sharpness do the damage for you."

"It did once impale a warg's skull without much trouble," said Bilbo, laughing shakily. Thorin hummed a small laugh behind him, trying to feel guilty for the way he was reveling in the feel of Bilbo's back pressed up against his chest. He felt so _small_ against him, narrow and delicate where Thorin was rough and broad. He wondered how it would feel to rest his chin atop Bilbo's curls; if Bilbo would pull away if Thorin wrapped his arms around his chest, holding him tight from behind and just breathing in the green, fresh smell of him.

It occurred to him that the incident with the wargs could have ended far worse for Bilbo than it had, and Thorin felt a sudden clenching in his chest at the idea of Bilbo being hurt. At him bleeding, or in pain, or clutching at a wound that Thorin never should have allowed to happen in the first place. In front of him, Bilbo seemed completely oblivious to Thorin's unease as he continued to practice his sword strokes.

_It gives me great anxiety that he wears no body armour,_ thought Thorin distractedly, his mind drifting to the light linen shirts Bilbo tended to wear. Such clothes tended to reveal a distracting patch of skin right below his neck, and there was never any mail or leather peeking out beneath them. Once again, the notion of _hiding the halfing away_ came treacherously into his mind: of keeping him where no one could ever see or touch, of locked doors and guards to keep him safe, of covering him from head to toe in mithril just to be sure.

"Thank you," came Bilbo's voice, the sound stilted and awkward and sudden. Thorin jerked out of his reverie, his heart pounding so hard that he could only hope and pray that Bilbo did not notice. He felt rather than saw Bilbo shrug his shoulders. "For, um. Helping me with this; for making me less useless. I really do appreciate it, you know."

For a second, Thorin faltered. The words were laden with a kind of peculiar heaviness, and Thorin felt something twist uncomfortably in the base of his stomach. He wished very much that he knew the right combination of words to make Bilbo's doubts go away, but the memory of their conversation by firelight a few nights ago burned brightly in his mind. Somehow, his reassurances always seemed to turn sour as soon as they left his lips.

"Don't say such things," he said gruffly, feeling uncomfortable and tight in his chest. "You are not a burden, I told you as much."

It seemed as though there was more he should say, but Thorin could feel Bilbo tensing up – before relaxing heavily, as though Thorin had finally managed to say something right. Thorin stepped back quickly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with their close proximity, and Bilbo turned to face him. There was a small smile on his lips that made his laugh lines more pronounced, and the very tips of his slightly-pointed ears were just visible through his curls. His linen shirt that had begun their journey so crisp and white was nearly grey and fraying along the edges, but he seemed to almost glow with a calm contentedness nonetheless.

He looked very beautiful.

If they were in Erebor – Erebor as it used to be, not the devastated shell it had become – Thorin would have given Bilbo his weight in gold and more as a gift to win his favour. He realized that, now; the stirrings in his chest could no longer be denied, and Bilbo was special. So special, so _small_, so much courage and strength hiding behind that sweet smile.

He wanted Bilbo; wanted the hobbit to wear rings branded with the insignia of Durin, to clad himself in only the finest clothes that gold could buy, to let Thorin call him _his _in every conceivable way so that everyone who looked would know exactly who he belonged to. Thorin would have draped him in fine golden chains and glittering gems – _green and yellow, perhaps, the colours of the Shire _– just to see him smile. Just for the_ chance_ that Bilbo might forgive him for past wrongs; for the mere possibility that he would stay by Thorin's side and help him rebuild a shattered kingdom.

But this was not Erebor.

In front of him, Bilbo was smiling – but all Thorin could feel was a growing cold gathering in his chest. He gave a small bow, nodding back towards their camp.

"You had best find my nephews," said Thorin, the words coming out more abrupt than he had intended. He gave his head a shake. "To finish your lesson. And be careful: Gandalf says these lands may be home to shapeshifters."

"I will be," said Bilbo, blinking, but Thorin was already turning and heading into the woods. He needed a moment – needed to _think _– and that meant heading away from the camp, away from his companions. Away from Bilbo, whose eyes Thorin pretended not to feel on his back as he fled.

* * *

As far as Thorin could tell from the darkening sky, it was almost an hour later when Balin and Dwalin found him. He did not look up as they stepped through the trees, although he had heard them long before they came into sight. Hushed words and heavy footsteps they made no effort to conceal, and the rustling sound of walking through foliage that meant they wanted their presence to be known.

It was a good little glade. Full of soft, tall grass and the tops of the trees far enough apart for the moon's light to shine through the canopies. Too small for all fourteen of them to make camp, but more than adequate for a single dwarf. Fireflies had started to come out a little while ago.

After leaving Bilbo, Thorin had made the decision that his weapons required immediate cleaning and sharpening. Orcrist never seemed to grow dull, the Elvish craftsmanship frustratingly flawless, but it had been too long since his broadsword and main axe had received proper attention. He was attacking his axe with a whetstone and considerable fervour when Balin cleared his throat.

"Dinner's ready, laddie," said Balin, his voice full of warmth and welcome.

"You still pouting?" Dwalin grunted, and Thorin finally wrenched his eyes away from his weaponry long enough to look up at them.

The two of them were such a funny sight together, as always. Snowy white hair bright in the moonlight, Balin stood with a look of gentle sternness on his face. He seemed positively tiny next to Dwalin, whose imposing stature coupled with his crossed arms made him look as though he was gearing up for a fight. Although the two were brothers, they were so radically different in appearance and the age gap between them so vast that many did not realize their familial relationship. What they shared, however, was countless years in Thorin's closest confidence. With Balin as a mentor and Dwalin as a companion-in-arms, he had never wanted for friendship.

Now, however, their familiarity did not feel like a boon. Thorin scowled.

"I do not_ pout_," Thorin muttered, giving the blade of his axe a forceful stroke with the whetstone and glaring at Dwalin.

"Could've fooled me," said Dwalin, looking at Thorin with unconvinced eyes and raising a single thick eyebrow. Thorin just managed to stop himself from _growling,_ and for a moment he seriously contemplated whether or not getting into a quick scrap with his friend would make him feel better or worse.

"What my brother_ means_ to say," Balin piped up, sending Dwalin a reproachful glance that his brother merely shrugged off, "is that we've both known you for a very long time." He walked over to Thorin and then lowered himself to the ground slowly, taking a moment to straighten his long brown coat. Dwalin followed carelessly, flumping down onto the grass with considerably less gentleness. They sat like that amongst the tall grass in a makeshift circle: Balin with his back straight and legs crossed, Dwalin a sprawl of limbs, and Thorin coiled like a spring with his back against a tree.

Across from him, Balin gave Thorin a_ look_ over the bridge of his nose. "The others might not have noticed, Thorin, but don't think for a second that we haven't."

"You want to bugger the burglar," said Dwalin bluntly, nodding in understanding, and Thorin nearly brained himself on the tree trunk he was leaning against as he shot back in shock. There was a muted _thump_ as Thorin's axe fell from his limp fingers and landed on the ground, and the choked-off spluttering noise that escaped his gaping mouth was completely involuntary. Dwalin gave him a pat on the arm, and Thorin could see Balin closing his eyes and rubbing his temple in a long-suffering expression.

"I don't – I mean, that's not –" Thorin blurted in a strangled voice, and Dwalin threw back his head in laughter. Horrified, Thorin thought he could feel heat spreading across his cheeks.

It was _completely unfair_, he thought,that after all he had been through – all the enemies faced, all the battles lost and won – that his two closest friends could still make him feel about forty years old without barely even trying.

"Oh, come on!" said Dwalin, shrugging his shoulders. "You're hardly_ subtle_ about it, you great royal lump." He shook his head. "I don't know why you don't just take him, if you want him so badly. I don't imagine he'd _object_."

Something contracted frantically in Thorin's chest, but he shoved the feeling aside and sent Dwalin a hard stare.

"You know not of what you speak," said Thorin, looking determinedly into Dwalin's blue eyes and forcing his voice to be as level as possible. Even so, a hint of unsteadiness lingered in his words nonetheless. "It is... not as simple as that."

Dwalin snorted. "I doubt that," he said. "I've seen you two together."

At that, Thorin gave a hard wince. Just think about how horrendously transparent he must have been since the day they escaped from the goblins was enough to make him never want to look any of his companions in the eye again. Balin gave him a sympathetic look that did nothing to make him feel better.

"Can't say I'm not surprised," Dwalin rumbled, moving his head from side to side so that his neck cracked noisily. He straightened after a moment, shooting Thorin a little grin. "I mean, he's comely enough in his own way, I suppose. Guess I just never took you for the type to go searching for a bit of fun."

The words were meant as a tease, as a jibe. Instead, Thorin swallowed hard and looked away.

When Thorin was young – only twenty, barely old enough for the memories to be solid in his mind – his mother had passed away during a great sickness. The memories he had of her death were so fleeting and foggy that he sometimes could not discern if they were real or imagined: the heavy wool of the blankets they had wrapped her in when she sweated and sweated and couldn't get warm, the way she had held his hand and whispered his secret name in Khuzdul over and over until his hand was stiff but he could not care, how small she had looked in her sickbed without her ever-present jewelry.

But more than anything else, Thorin remembered the utter _devastation_ that had engulfed his father once she passed. It had been as though he had lost mother and father both, in those first few months. Thrain locked himself in his room and barely ate, and the raw wailing of his sobs had echoed in the halls of Erebor every day for a long time. When he finally emerged, it had been like a piece of him had been carved away with a dull knife: he lived, but a part of him had been lost forever. He went about his life, but he would never be the same.

That was how most of their kind loved: with all their minds and all their hearts, a deeply personal adoration that was all-consuming in its intensity. It had not been until his years in exile in the towns of men that Thorin had even realized that the utter dedication and_ love_ that persisted long after death was not necessarily customary in other races. For men, marriages were many but few of them were truly happy. For dwarves, there were few marriages – few women, few whose hearts beat for one another – but almost all of them lasted a lifetime.

There were some exceptions, of course. There were those who never met anyone to make their heart stir, and some of them chose lives of variety. Every so often widowed dwarves were able to find a new spouse to spend their lives with, and even more rare were the dwarves who chose to break their marital vows.

Those were the exceptions. Overall, however, devotion was the rule.

Thorin swallowed, looking down at his lap. It was almost fully dark out, now, although the moonlight still shone bright above them. He took a deep breath.

"That would be because I am not." said Thorin, the words very slow and very quiet. It had been hard enough, he thought, to accept his fascination with the halfling within the confines of his own mind. Confessing it out loud made him feel incredibly exposed; as though not only his clothing but his very skin had been peeled back for all the world to see.

When he glanced back up at his friends, he saw that Dwalin's mouth was slightly open in a gobsmacked expression that made him look decidedly less fearsome.

"Oh," said Dwalin dumbly. He grunted; Balin had elbowed him sharply in the ribs and muttered something that sounded very much like _I told you so_ under his breath. Afterwards, Balin turned and gave Thorin a look that made him feel very much like a dwarfling small enough to hide behind his father's cloak.

"So you intend to...?" asked Balin, but Thorin cut him off with a shake of his head.

"I don't know. I don't –" he swallowed hard, feeling lost. There was a long pause. "I can't," Thorin said eventually, and the realization made him feel like something was fragmenting inside of him. "I can't," he said again, unnecessarily, and closed his eyes.

"Is it about the succession?" asked Balin after a moment, sounding uncertain.

"What?" Thorin asked, eyes flying open. He scrubbed a hand, shoving his long hair out of his eyes. "No, of course not. I have my sister-sons as heirs, the succession is not a concern. It's just..."

Thorin thought about the soft comforts of Bag End, with its tidy little front garden and squashy armchairs and wide rounded doorways that had seemed polished to within an inch of their lives. The dawn light had poured through the windows the morning they left. There had been a brass kettle on the fireplace and doubtless a closet full of embroidered vests and velvet smoking jackets, and all of it so homely and quaint and _foreign_ to him. His mind flashed to the cold, damp places that he'd had to make do with during his time in exile: hostile human towns and the heat of the forge that had blistered his skin, scrounging for enough gold just to feed himself and the dwarves in his care.

He thought about the cool stone of Erebor's halls; of how much he had adored growing up there, in a kingdom of wealth and majesty where the tunnels never seemed to end. The very idea of those beautiful halls and the treasure they held made his very fingers _itch_ with the desire to take it back, to reclaim it – but he knew that Bilbo was not like him.

Because Bilbo was a hobbit, and the Shire was his home. He belonged there; he had said as much. And when this adventure was complete, no matter what Thorin might do, Bilbo would leave him and return there. Even if he could convince Bilbo of his own worth, there was small chance the halfling would have any desire to stay with him even if they _did_ manage to recapture Erebor.

His only hope, Thorin knew, was to win his heart with gold and gifts – and he had neither to his name. He owned nothing but the clothes on his back and the steel in his hand, no better than a common peasant. If he could defeat Smaug, reclaim his family's treasure – or the Arkenstone, perhaps, and what a gift _that _would be – then perhaps he could stand a chance. But until then...

"I have nothing to offer him," said Thorin simply. Across from him, Dwalin scoffed.

"You're a _king_," he said dismissively, as though Thorin had somehowforgotten.

"A king without land!" Thorin barked back, anger and hopelessness flaring inside him like a spark that caught alight. He glared at Balin and Dwalin, challenging them to contradict him. "A king without a people, a king without a _kingdom_. A suitor without gold or gifts?" Thorin asked in disdain, giving a hollow laugh. Dwalin winced, and Balin looked down at his the ground with a carefully neutral expression. "You know better than that. You _both _know better than that."

"Thorin –" protested Balin, but Thorin just shook his head.

"No," said Thorin, his voice brooking absolutely no opposition. Balin fell silent. Thorin took a long, deep breath; he took a moment to collect himself, trying to gather all of his melancholy and anger and force it somewhere deep inside where he could not look upon it. Both of his companions were very, very silent. Thorin let out a sigh. "Do not speak of this to him, or to anyone," he said quietly. "That is a command."

He got to his feet and picked up his weaponry, sliding it back into its various sheathes and places of concealment without looking either of his friends in the eye. Once all of his possessions were in place, he turned to leave – but only got a few paces away before he halted, lingering. He could feel both Balin and Dwalin's eyes on his back.

"Thank you for your concern," he said, stiff but polite. "You two... you are my dearest and oldest friends, and I have not forgotten that. I know you meant well tonight." He paused. "We will speak of this again once we have recaptured Erebor."

And with that, Thorin left the glade.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thank you so much for sticking with me, and for letting me know what you think! Updates (as well as general flailings) are available at emilianadarling dot tumblr dot com. :)

One more thing: at this point, dedicated Tolkien enthusiasts will have noticed the severely altered geography I've been using for this story thus far. Beorn's Hall and the Carrock are, of course, much closer than I've made them up to be. For the purpose of pacing and tension, however, I chose to alter the geography for my own purposes.

* * *

The morning after they crossed the Anduin, Gandalf rejoined their party with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and an extra spring in his step. The old man puffed himself up into some combination of _irritated_ and _privately amused _upon his arrival, chiding them for all manner of blunders.

Some of the supposed blunders were legitimate, such as his blustered reprimands at their decision to light a campfire in that particular location. The fear of being discovered by nearby enemies was especially profound so close to Mirkwood, and Thorin privately conceded that perhaps the fire had not been their best decision.

Other blunders, however, such as his extreme annoyance that the company was not already risen and packed by the time that he arrived – before the sun had fully risen and without any warning – were less well-founded.

As soon as everyone was ready enough to leave, Gandalf easily swept forward and began to lead them in a slightly different direction than they had previously been heading. Although Thorin continuously demanded to be informed of their destination, Gandalf blithely refused with a smile on his face all the while. The only answer he gave was to say they were going "to a friend, my lad, to a friend!", a phrase that he took to repeating every time the question was raised.

_Wizards,_ Thorin thought cantankerously upon being refused for the fifth time,_ are far more trouble than they are worth._ He dropped back a little ways, the secretive air having put him in a thoroughly foul mood.

The entire situation was made even more confusing around an hour into their march, when Gandalf shouted for Bilbo to join him at the head of the party. Thorin felt his eyebrows rise sharply at the seemingly-random demand, turning around to look at Bilbo in surprise. Bilbo seemed as confused as he was, blinking in surprise where he had moments before been conversing lightly with Bombur. He hesitated, grabbed onto his pack straps – and hurried forward to join Gandalf, looking uncertain but willing to help.

A few feet ahead of him, Gandalf spoke to Bilbo just quietly enough that Thorin could hear nothing of their conversation. It was aggravating beyond words, adding to his already sour temperament. He glared in frustration at their backs as they walked, tempted to barge ahead and make another attempt at demanding answers.

The ground grew steeper as they walked, the harsh pace making Thorin's still-healing wounds ache and throb under his armour. The foliage was thick and the trail unpleasant, and his anger at being excluded from the leading of his own company was enough to keep him stewing unpleasantly all the while.

For a little while, Fili came up alongside him and attempted to provide an obvious but well-intentioned distraction as they walked. It was partially successful: they had a long discussion about the methods for transporting dwarves from the Blue Mountains to Erebor once the mountain had been reclaimed, as well as theorizing about which important dwarves should be made in charge of certain vital areas of rule. Their conversation could not entirely ease his worries, however, with the result that Thorin's foul mood was still simmering quietly right up until the very moment he crested the hill.

The broad oak trees began to thin, and then part, and as they reached the top of the small hill they were able to see it for the first time. Bilbo's quiet gasp of delight ahead of him alerted Thorin of some change half a heartbeat before it came into his own view, but the sight was still boggling in its sheer difference from the rest of the landscape.

A great valley lay in front of them, a grand wooden hall nestled in its centre. The hall was surrounded by lush grassy fields and edged by a babbling stream, with a few circular pools beyond that. There was an enormous garden on the hall's other side, and it was the colours of the garden that shocked Thorin at first: bright and brilliant and _so very many_, the beds clearly bursting with life even from a distance. There seemed to be a large wooden gate on another end of the enormous clearing that Gandalf had cleverly led them behind, as well as funny little straw-shaped things that might just be bee hives.

But the truly impressive feature was the house itself. It was _massive_, clearly made from solid wood and doubtless an incredibly staunch guard against enemies. It looked large enough to house their party three times over.

"It is the home of Beorn, a skin-changer," Gandalf explained, whiskers twitching as he smiled at the hall in obvious pleasure. "There was once a race of such men, who could change their skins as easily as we change clothes. The orcs grew strong, however, and now it is only he that remains."

He turned to glance at the dwarves, who were staring at the sight ahead of them, before turning his gaze on Thorin specifically. His expression sharpened. "He is not a trusting man, and quick to anger. But he is kind enough if humoured, and I suspect that he will let us stay once he learns of our escapades in the goblin tunnels."

"It has been long since we have had proper rest," Thorin agreed haltingly after a pause, dragging his eyes away from the extensive bee hives to return Gandalf's gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bilbo staring off at the house uncertainly. "But fifteen guests may be seen as too great an imposition if he is as quick to anger as you say."

"Ah, yes." Gandalf twinkled merrily, looking a great deal more animated than he had been in quite a long time. "That is where our little burglar comes in."

"... pardon?" asked Bilbo, his eyes wide in comical unease. Gandalf merely smiled.

* * *

Fifteen guests would be easy to turn away all at once. Parties of two or three merely looking for some shelter during a long journey, however, would hopefully be more difficult to dismiss. And for all that Thorin protested that going down to the hall in small groups left them vulnerable, the plan seemed to work very well indeed.

They waited at the border of the large oak trees, staggering their entrance in twos and threes that seemed to automatically fall along family lines. Gandalf and Bilbo went first, the halfing nearly scurrying to keep up with Gandalf's wide steps. They were followed by Balin and Dwalin, then Oin and Gloin ten minutes later. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur came along after that, followed by Dori, Nori, and Ori and then Fili and Kili a little after. Thorin would go last, a decision that was as aggravating as it was practical: there was no need to thrust the entire nature of their quest on Beorn until Gandalf and Bilbo had sweet-talked him as much as possible.

Waiting alone at the border of Beorn's lands was maddening, and Thorin paced restlessly for almost the entire time. Even though the house and gardens seemed still and quiet, he could not help but fret over the safety of his companions.

One companion in particular, perhaps. Thorin felt heat rising in his face, then dismissed it as anger. When Gandalf had revealed his desire to use Bilbo as a strategically calming presence, Thorin had very nearly _demanded_ for Gandalf to swear he would not allow Bilbo to come to any harm before Thorin would allow him out of his sight. It was a ridiculous instinct, and Thorin had been able to repress it – but the fact that he had been left behind and had no _idea _whether or not Bilbo was safe still rankled him badly.

Without even fully realizing, his need to keep track of Bilbo – to have an idea of where he was at all times, to ensure that someone was always with him – had grown into something consuming and impossible to ignore over the past few days. It itched under his skin and gnawed at his thoughts, sometimes even drowning out even the desperation to reclaim Erebor that always thrummed at the back of his mind.

It was frightening, how out of control and_ powerless _Thorin felt against the instincts and impulses that were ever-growing inside him – and the worst of it was that he and Bilbo weren't even _involved_. It was all in his head, all in his _stupid _head, and Thorin understood for the first time why some of the warriors he knew in his youth had hoped they would never find the person to make their heart stir.

_It makes you weak,_ Thorin realized in horror, something deeply uncomfortable clenching in the base of his stomach.

At his sides, Thorin's hands clenched into fists. He almost wanted to lash out in anger; to strike at the trees around him with axe and sword, to gouge great chunks out of their bark. Something inside of him felt so inexpressibly exhausted at the realization, however, that he couldn't seem to muster the effort. He unclenched his hands with a concerted effort, letting out a hard breath and leaning against one of the oak trees.

These_ feelings_ he was having weren't just inconvenient: they were dangerous, both to their quest and to his people. Weakness wasn't something he had ever had the luxury of, and that was more true than ever now. He clenched his eyes shut and gathered himself, shoving it all down and bolstering the walls that kept him stable, kept him sane.

And he could not – _would _not – let his people down because of his own personal failings. Not now; not when Erebor was so close to their reach.

Resolution hard against his skin, Thorin opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, straightened his back – and began to walk down into the valley and toward the wooden hall.

Despite Gandalf's warnings about the shortness of his temper, Beorn proved to be a surprisingly decent host. Although Thorin quietly tucked himself at Bilbo's side as soon as he entered the hall, it was quickly apparent that there had been nothing to worry about: Gandalf's explanations and platitudes had worked wonders, and Bilbo had apparently been sufficiently unintimidating to convince Beorn they posed no threat.

As much as it pained Thorin to admit it, Beorn was so shockingly large that it was almost impossible not to feel like a child next to him. It wasn't very often that Thorin truly noticed his own height: men and elves were the strangely long and stretched ones, after all, and the compact strength of the dwarves was clearly superior in almost every respect.

Beorn, however, stood taller and broader than any man or elf he had ever seen, with a great black beard and an intimidating demeanour. The contents of the hall were _enormous _as a result_:_ rough-hewn tables and benches that came up to Thorin's chest,carvings of bears and boars as big as they were, and even great grey dogs that padded around and seemed to accept their presence as a minor inconvenience.

"You can stay for a few days," Beorn announced once all of them were gathered, his great thick arms crossed as he surveyed them. His voice was a deep and booming. "Don't go outside at night lest you bring the goblins down on us all. Rest assured, you'll be fed and watered and well-supplied when you leave."

They ate better that night than they had since Rivendell: roasted deer that made grease run down into their beards, potatoes and carrots cooked in butter and rosemary, crusty bread slathered with honey. There were great pitchers of ale and sweet apple cider, too, and all of the food was spread out across the great table in bowls and platters so massive it took two of them to lift each one.

They ate with such enthusiasm that it made Beorn laugh out loud, none of them willing to slow down to allow for conversation. Gandalf attempted amused aloofness, but smoked his pipe and drank his cider with obvious pleasure. Bombur ate three times what should have been appropriate as a guest, and to Thorin's shock Bilbo wasn't far behind him. Dori seemed to share his surprise.

"How much can you possibly fit into that little body of yours, Master Baggins?" Dori asked, expression fluctuating between being dismayed and impressed. Dori himself had been attempting to show restraint throughout the entire meal, and had only partially succeeded. "You didn't eat like this when we gathered in your hobbit hole, I'll say that much."

Mouth full of potatoes, Bilbo let out a choked noise of laughter. He swallowed hugely, practically glowing with pleasure at the meal in front of him.

"Just because hobbits don't break into strangers' pantries and eat them out of house and home doesn't mean we don't appreciate food," he chastised, appearing to huff himself up into some kind of lecture – before groaning in pure bliss as another platter of honeyed bread was placed on the table. "It's been _weeks _since I've had honey," said Bilbo reverently, plucking up another slice.

His eyes nearly rolled back into his head when he bit into it, and a helpless noise of pleasure escaped his throat at the taste. Thorin looked away hastily at the sound, steadfastly trying to ignore the look Balin gave him across the table.

Once they were all too full to even_ consider_ eating more Gloin and Bifur helped to clear the plates away. Beorn asked Fili and Kili to help him prepare the beds, and the three of them spent a considerable amount of time gathering straw and woolen blankets to pile at one end of the hallway.

Spirits much improved from the hearty meal and the warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth, Thorin sat with Dwalin and Beorn at the great table long after the rest of them wandered over to the makeshift bed. They spoke of Mirkwood, which loomed so close to Beorn's home; of approximate timelines for their stay, of what supplies they might need to take with them, of the best way to make it through the forest without catching the attention of the Elvenking.

When Beorn excused himself for a few minutes to tend to the fire, however, Thorin's mind began to wander. His eyes were scouting around the hall for that tell-tale mop of curls before he even registered what he was looking for, eyes skimming over the grey shape of Gandalf dozing in the corner. When he did finally catch sight of Bilbo, however, it felt as though the bottom fell out of his stomach.

Bilbo and Bofur were huddled together in the hall's far corner. Although they sat on top of the makeshift bed, the two of them sat a considerable distance from where the rest of the party was sleeping or quietly conversing. They were talking in whispers, leaning in close in a way that marked the conversation as distinctly private.

While Bofur's face was obscured by the flaps of his hat, the anxiously intense expression on Bilbo's face was enough to make something awful twist in Thorin's gut. For a second, Bilbo glanced up in Thorin's direction – before looking away again with such speed that it almost made Thorin feel physically _ill_.

He grunted when Dwalin elbowed him in the side, completely unable to tear his eyes off the pair of them.

"You're a _king_, Thorin," said Dwalin insistently, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking. He could hear the scoff in Dwalin's voice, as though Thorin's foolishness was physically hurting him. "He's a _toymaker_."

The words were blunt, but there was no real contempt to them. Thorin knew that Dwalin had no disrespect for common folk: he had spent much of his life surrounded by warriors as the leader of Erebor's guard, and was far more likely to judge a man by his strength in battle than by his profession.

Still, though, to him the choice was obvious: Thorin was a king, therefore he should get what he wanted. He might not have gold or gifts at the moment, but his position was so exponentially higher than Bofur's that the mere promise of them should be enough to win Bilbo's heart. In Dwalin's mind, there was no real reason why Thorin shouldn't use the full force of his rank to prove exactly who the halfling belonged to.

But Bilbo didn't belong to him, no matter what Thorin might want. And the fact that Bofur was so open with his friendliness – that he could be so kindly and patient and _loving_ with everyone, as though something like that was_ easy_ – made Thorin hate him just a little bit. Made him think that, toymaker or not, Bofur might have more to offer Bilbo than he ever could.

"Enough," Thorin grunted as Beorn returned, and Dwalin sent him a pained expression before nodding.

They talked late into the night. Thorin drank steadily from his oversized mug, forcing himself not to look over at the corner until everyone but the three of them was sound asleep.

* * *

The sound of footsteps crunching on straw was enough to send Thorin jerking out of sleep, eyes flying open and his sword hand tense just in case. Someone was moving across the makeshift bed, trying to be quiet but not quite succeeding, and Thorin couldn't see them from his position. Adrenaline burst behind his eyes for a few moments, his heart pounding in his chest, before the footsteps stopped and a familiar voice began to whisper.

"Hey," whispered Fili, his voice coming from somewhere off to his left, and Thorin would know that voice anywhere. The sun was barely risen, and Thorin's tendency to jolt awake at the slightest noise had already resulted in him waking twice in the middle of the night: once at the sudden sound of dogs barking, and once at a great roar that had turned out to be nothing more than Beorn in his great bear form.

Fortunately, he also possessed a soldier's ability to sleep anywhere at any time. He let himself relax, eyes falling closed again.

There was a soft thumping sound, as though Fili was poking someone awake. "Hey, Bilbo!" he whispered, voice low but determined. "Wake up!"

_That _made Thorin wake up properly again. He stilled, eyes closed, listening to the exchange.

"Mmm?" came Bilbo's voice, sleep-slurred and confused, and Thorin could practically see him in his mind's eye; blankets pulled up over half his face with his legs curled up tight, rumpled curls barely peeking out. There were more shifting noises. "Whas'a'matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," said Fili softly, a grin in his voice. "Except that last night's feast distracted us from an important daily ritual. Get up and get your sword. Kili and I will meet you outside."

There was a quiet groan from Bilbo, which made the smallest smile tug at the corners of Thorin's lips against his will. "It's – _the sun isn't even fully up yet_," Bilbo hissed, sounding resigned but profoundly unimpressed. "It's not decent."

"Definitely not. See you outside!" Fili whispered cheerily, followed by the soft footsteps as he walked away. Bilbo grumbled quietly to himself, but the sound of rustling blankets and straw seemed to indicate that he was getting up anyways.

After he was gone, Thorin fell back to sleep with a smile still on his lips.

* * *

Once the sun had risen a little higher in the air, however, there was no more excuse to stay sleeping.

After Thorin had eaten his fill from the enormous pot of porridge Beorn had left on the table, he decided that the morning would be best spent focusing on getting both himself and his attire clean. They would spend the afternoon parceling out supplies for their journey: at the moment he neither felt nor smelled particularly kingly, and it might be his last chance to properly rectify that for a long while.

He gathered the necessary supplies easily enough: a pair of light linen pants that Nori had somehow acquired and Thorin had cut short enough to fit, as well as a large wooden basin, a bar of soap, and a long length of rope from Beorn's household. Once he had everything, Thorin passed the others in their various states of rest and conversation and headed outside to the stream.

It was a bright day, but the coolness of the air was a pleasant surprise against his skin after the long hours spent inside. There were signs of life everywhere: grey dogs wandering about the open space, birds in the trees, the shapes of the bee hives some distance away. Thorin walked through the tall grass, eyes trained on a large flat rock next to the stream's edge. It would do nicely as a place to clean his clothes, and he would move on to one of the pools he'd seen earlier to clean himself once this was done.

Although there had been a time when washing his own clothes might have seemed unbecoming of his position, long years on the road and in the towns of men had made Thorin more than proficient at it. He dipped the basin into the running water of the stream, set it down by the rock, and then efficiently stripped his many heavy layers of clothing – fur cloak, outer robe, overshirt, trousers, underclothes as well as all of his assorted leather and chainmail –before slipping on the light linen trousers and getting to work.

There had been little opportunity for giving anything cloth a proper clean during the journey, and Thorin sat on the rock and ruthlessly used soap, water, and brute force to take out as much blood, dirt, and muck as possible.

It took over an hour and several basins of water before everything was decently scoured. It was a mindless task, but a useful one, and before long everything he owned was wrung out and hanging from the rope he had tied between two trees.

Soapy and cold and everything but his hands and arms still filthy, he headed back across the fields. The pools were easy enough to find: although they were located a little ways away from Beorn's cabin, the large rocks surrounding them stood out from a great distance. The sounds of merriment and splashing drifted over from quite a distance, and as he approached he could see that Gloin, Nori, Dori, and Bifur were already submerged in the water.

As Thorin came even closer, the realization that there was steam rising from the water almost made him groan out loud. Bifur spotted him first, shouting a greeting in Khuzdul and making the others turn.

"Thorin!" cried Nori upon seeing him, looking quite unrecognizable with his hair out of its elaborate style. Instead, it was a wet mass of red around his shoulders. "Come in and join us, the water's more than fine."

"Hot springs," said Thorin, barely managing to believe it. The steam rising from the water only did a little to obscure his companions' nakedness, but he did not mind. Long years of living and fighting alongside his kin had made him utterly unselfconscious about nudity, whether it be his own or that of others. He shook his head. "I cannot recall the last time I enjoyed such a luxury."

"Aren't they divine?" sighed Dori, sinking down so that his ears just barely poked out. He looked happier than Thorin had seen him in a long while.

Without another thought, Thorin shucked the linen pants and stepped into the hot water. The heat of it was a shock against his skin, and his still-healing wounds stung the slightest bit at contact. He sunk right down until he was submerged up to his sternum, muscles practically singing with relief, taking a moment to duck his head underwater to ensure that his hair got properly wet. When he breached the surface he could barely hold back a sigh of pleasure. He breathed in deep through his nose, letting his eyes close, enjoying the damp heat of the air.

"Do any of you remember the public hot springs in Erebor?" came Gloin's voice, sounding languorous and very much relaxed. "Now_ that_ was a decent establishment."

At the mention of Erebor as it used to be, Thorin felt something inside him tense up – but this was a good memory. It stung in the way that rubbing salve over a wound stings: still painful, but with the knowledge that it was working toward something worthwhile. Hearing his companions exchange memories of Erebor was fairly rare, and it made him even more determined to reclaim their home.

"The place by the rat-catcher's shop?" asked Nori incredulously, and Thorin opened heavy eyes and raised an eyebrow. Dori and Nori had twin looks of scepticism on their faces.

At the other end of the pool, Gloin scowled dismissivly. "Not _that_ place, heavens. Little more than a hive of disease, and in _that _neighbourhood. No, I mean the one by the old library._ Marvelous_ hot springs. My wife and I used to go there fairly regularly," he said, sounding proud.

Across from him, Bifur snickered and made a comment about their Company being a congregation of tamed cats and sewer rats. Gloin looked a little abashed, but laughed along with everyone else.

They were still discussing the merits of Erebor's former bathing houses when Thorin spotted three figures coming towards them, the one lagging behind decidedly shorter than the others. He swallowed heavily.

"Hot springs!" cried Kili in delight when they got a bit closer, a look of complete ecstasy on his sweaty face. He, Fili, and Bilbo all still had swords clutched in their hands, obviously having come straight from practice. Kili was already clumsily kicking off his boots and tugging at his jerkin, tossing his sword onto a patch of grass in his eagerness. "Oh, it's been _ages_. I probably smell like a pony's rear end right about now."

"Charming as ever," Fili laughed, but he was already unlacing his own tunic with a grin. Behind him, however, Bilbo was approaching with an increasingly pained expression on his face. Thorin's eyes narrowed.

"Did you injure yourself during training?" he asked sharply, eyes scanning over the hobbit in an attempt to locate any scratches or cuts. Bilbo blinked, his gaze refocusing. He was pink-faced from sword practice.

"Pardon?" Bilbo asked vaguely, then gave his head a firm shake. He appeared to be attempting to look anywhere but at the dwarves in the water, gaze pointed unnecessarily high. This had the effect of making him address the words to a nearby tree instead of to Thorin himself. Thorin frowned, wondering if hot springs were uncommon in the Shire. "I –no. Not injured at all." There was a beat. "I am getting rather hungry, though. Time for an early lunch, I think. I'll just –"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by two loud groans as Fili and Kili waded into the water, twin looks of bliss on their faces.

"Oh, it's wonderful," sighed Fili, dunking his whole head underwater before shaking his hair out like a dog. Kili laughed in delight, and shortly the two of them were settling against the edges. "Bilbo, don't be a curmudgeon! Your swordplay is coming along nicely; you deserve to give yourself a reward."

The rest of the dwarves called out their agreement, beckoning Bilbo over. Thorin remained deliberately silent, lips pressed tight together. He tried very hard not to think about what Bilbo would look like unbuttoning his clothes, but his mind was already running slightly wild with the image.

Thorin had seen Bilbo in partial stages of undress over the course of their journey – it was hard not to, considering the close quarters they all shared on the road – but it would be nothing compared to seeing him stripped bare and soaking wet, the water warm against his skin. He wondered if his pale skin would turn pink from the heat of it. Thorin shifted uneasily at the thought, allowing himself to sink a bit lower into the water.

"I'm fine, really," Bilbo insisted, taking a step back. "Honestly. There are books in the hall I want to look at while there's still light, and I can always come back a bit later –"

"Just your feet, then," cajoled Kili, giving Bilbo a plaintiff look that he was almost too old to pull off. Thorin could remember that same expression on a much younger face. "Come _on_, Bilbo. You walk around on those things all day without boots; they _must _get sore. Just stay for a few minutes."

"I..." Bilbo hesitated, mouth twisted up and face rumpled with some unknown emotion. "All right, yes, fine," he finally conceded, sounding pained. Nori and Bifur both cheered, and Kili let out a little shout of victory. Thorin shoved away the twinge of disappointment at not seeing Bilbo undressed, feeling ashamed of himself for even thinking about it.

There was a pause as Bilbo rolled up his trousers even higher, fussily making sure they were both the same length. Thorin felt his gaze lowering to land on Bilbo's feet, large and covered in a great deal of light-coloured hair. He couldn't help but wonder if they were ticklish, or if constant exposure made the soles too thick to feel much. He wondered if Bilbo enjoyed people touching them, or if touching a hobbit's feet was somehow taboo.

Finally, Bilbo sat himself down in between Gloin and Nori. He dipped his feet in cautiously, but the little exhale of pleasure he let out when they were all the way underwater had Fili and Kili practically beaming. Thorin felt a smile tugging at his own lips, as well. They all sat for a little while, enjoying the soothing heat.

"What books are you eager to read, Mister Bilbo?" asked Dori after a moment. At Bilbo's blank look, he elaborated. "The ones in the hall you want to take a look at?"

"Oh!" said Bilbo, giving a little shrug. He swished his feet back and forth in the water as he spoke. "Beorn's library is small and his books are... rather oversized, but there are a few interesting ones about gardening and geography I was hoping to look at. They're mostly in the common tongue or Elvish, which is nice."

All at once, Thorin felt badly wrong-footed. "You read Elvish?" he asked, surprise and displeasure welling up hard within him. He imagined Bilbo tucked up in Bag-End, eagerly learning that squiggly mess of an alphabet. The thought made him feel profoundly irritated.

Bilbo frowned, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead. "I do," he said, sounding cautious.

"Do _all _hobbits read Elvish?" Thorin asked insistently, to which Bilbo shook his head.

"Hardly any, no. Most of them don't see the point."

"There isn't one," said Thorin conclusively, feeling rather smug, to which Bilbo let out an indignant little splutter.

"There most certainly_ is_ a point," Bilbo persisted, demeanour taking on the tone of someone who had had this debate many times before. Thorin thought he heard Kili smother a giggle, but he couldn't be sure. "Rivendell is close to the Shire, I'll have you remember. There are all sorts of practical reasons that one might learn the language, and I know I always thought of going there. My Elvish might not be perfect, but –"

"If you could keep learning it now, would you?" Thorin demanded, the irrational anger swelling up even greater inside him. Bilbo gave him an obstinate look in response, straightening his back and throwing back his shoulders.

"I most certainly would," said Bilbo, to which Thorin threw up his arms in frustration. The movement sent water droplets flying.

"That's ridiculous, though!" Thorin snarled, the idea of a younger Bilbo all aflutter to go to _Rivendell _and _meet the elves_ so foul it almost made him feel physically sick. "Why would you waste all that time and energy when you could be learning Khuzdul instead?"

And that idea – of Bilbo learning Khuzdul, _speaking _Khuzdul – was so perfect that Thorin was shocked he hadn't thought of it earlier. Once they reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, trying to keep Bilbo in a place where he didn't even speak the main language would surely be a fool's task. If he could speak Khuzdul, Bilbo would be able to preside over infinitely more tasks in the reconstruction: it would show respect for their culture, and his knowledge of the language would be another tie to bind them together. It would be better than _Elvish_, he thought sourly, stomach churning at the thought.

Bolstering himself, Thorin fully expected another rapid-fire contestation; for the question to get Bilbo more worked up than ever. He almost _wanted _a fight, to have a reason to pay attention to Bilbo other than the damnable thoughts he couldn't speak out loud.

It seemed to have the complete opposite effect, however. Instead of growing more upset, Bilbo sat with his mouth slightly agape as he blinked in surprise. Around them, none of the other dwarves spoke. There was complete silence for a few long, still moments.

"... Khuzdul is a secret language," said Bilbo eventually, sounding uncertain. Thorin snorted.

"For dwarves and their closest allies, yes. Do you think me a simpleton?" He scoffed, giving Bilbo a hard look. "You did not answer my question."

For the first time since arriving at the hot springs, Bilbo lowered his gaze and looked Thorin straight in the eyes. Thorin looked right back, prepared to clash over the issue indefinitely if necessary. After a long pause, however, Bilbo actually _nodded_.

"All right," he said simply, the expression on his face unreadable. He gave a little shrug. "Khuzdul it is, then."

Astonished at the easy victory, Thorin blinked. Around them, everyone else was being so steadfastly silent that the lack of noise rang loudly in the air. "You don't intend to fight me about this?"

There was the briefest of pauses before Bilbo cocked his head to one side, all of the fight seeming to have leached out of him. "No," he said quietly, shaking his head. "No, I don't think I will."

"Good," said Thorin unnecessarily, eyebrows furrowing. Pent-up energy was buzzing inside of him, ready to be unleashed, but there didn't seem much else to say. "I'll instruct Ori to begin giving you lessons in both spoken aglâb and cirth script, as well the basics of iglishmêk. That should suffice for a start."

"All right," said Bilbo after a second, before pausing. No one else spoke. Instead of upset, however, Bilbo seemed quietly thoughtful. "I'm... going to go back to the hall now, I think," he said, scooting back and slowly standing. His feet left little twin puddles of water on the rock. He hesitated. "Thank you for the soak."

"You're welcome," said Thorin, the words awkward and stilted, even though he had done nothing in particular to earn Bilbo's thanks.

His companions wished the halfling farewell before returning to their conversation, their words somehow more reserved than before, but Thorin didn't join them. Instead, he watched as Bilbo turned and walked back toward Beorn's home, growing smaller and smaller as he walked further away.

But there were supplies to be arranged and routes through Mirkwood to debate, and he didn't have time to puzzle over such strange behaviour. Thorin excused himself before long as well, focusing on the matter at hand and trying very hard indeed to force that unknowable look on Bilbo's face out of his mind.


End file.
